


Temper

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [11]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Irritable Tommy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Sub tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-21 17:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: Alfie can feel it in his stomach – anticipation pooling – the watching and waiting to see whether Tommy will play ball. It’s like putting a lead on a stray dog really … you have to be very careful looping it round the neck, move slowly, stay quiet, but once you have it in place you can afford to pull a little, to draw it closer. And even though that dog is gonna dig its feet in, is going to resist, you just keep pulling gently, because you both know you’ve got it hooked.“You actually want me, to fucking kneel,” Tommy says, smirking ever so slightly.“Yeah, I do, Tommy,” Alfie answers with a correspondingly straight face.“And why the hell would I do that?”More power games for our delectable duo...I'm afraid this is a wall of mostly smut. You have been warned.





	Temper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [def_not](https://archiveofourown.org/users/def_not/gifts).

> Follows in sequence with the rest of my AU, (directly after Blushes) but can easily be read as a standalone.
> 
> Gifted to def_not in return for your wonderful artwork for Skylark. Thank you friend!

Alfie is sat on the sofa, book in hand, glasses perched halfway down his nose when he hears the front door open. It's late, much later than expected, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything where Tommy's concerned. Anyway, he has a key now, so at least Alfie doesn't actually have to get up and let him in, which is good, because he's rather comfortable where he is, thank you very much, and he's nearly finished this chapter. “Evenin’ Tommy,” he calls cheerily, without looking up.

“Evening Alfie,” Tommy says in a deep monotone that suggests he's anything _but_ cheery. As if to emphasise the point he sighs deeply, somewhere behind Alfie, then shuffles around a bit, most likely discarding various items of clothing. He clears his throat loudly and asks, “you eaten?”

“Yeah, course I have. It’s nearly ten," Alfie says. "Why, you peckish?”

“No, just wondered.”

“There’s left overs in the kitchen if you want. Cold meat, few potatoes.”

“I said I'm not hungry," Tommy repeats. 

"Why did you ask about food then?" Alfie wonders quietly, not really expecting an answer...which is just as well, because he doesn't get one. 

"Why isn’t the fire on?" Tommy asks next. 

“Because it’s September,” Alfie answers. 

“Exactly, autumn. S'cold in here.”

“It’s technically summer until the day after tomorrow Thomas, thought you of all people'd know that,” Alfie replies, without dragging his eyes from the book. He's mildly exasperated because he had been enjoying a quiet evening and could do without the irritable lines of questioning. He rather hoped Tommy might have turned up in a slightly better mood.

“It’s technically bloody freezing,” Tommy mutters, heading for the fireplace, "pedant," he mutters under his breath, which is fucking ridiculous because if anyone's pedantic round here it sure as hell ain't Alfie. He watches as Tommy puts a cigarette in his mouth and tries to light it a dozen or so times – thumb snapping repeatedly against the lighter wheel – before giving up and slamming it down on the mantlepiece with unnecessary force. He starts shuffling things around, moving cards and ornaments, one way then the other, lifting photograph frames and putting them back in the wrong place. It’s starting to grate on Alfie, because Tommy is never this careless with his own things. He’s clearly in a foul mood over something.

“Oi, what you after,” Alfie says when a candlestick clatters unsurprisingly onto the hearth. Thankfully it’s one of the brass ones, so doesn’t break.

“Matches,” Tommy says, putting the candlestick back offhandedly and knocking a pack of cards off in the process.

“For fucks sake, be careful,” Alfie grumbles. “There’s matches in the kitchen, by the stove.”

Tommy storms out of the room, returning moments later with a lit cigarette in one hand and the box of matches in the other.

Alfie goes back to the top of his page for the third time. He’s reading in Russian, so does actually need to concentrate, which is proving difficult to do with Tommy flouncing around in his peripheral vision, sighing and huffing at regular intervals. He's about three lines down when he becomes aware of the aggressive flailing a few feet in front of him. He can't help but watch over the top of his glasses as Tommy takes a folded newspaper from the log basket and opens it out wide, with an exaggerated snap in the air. Then he crouches down on the rug and starts folding it from one corner, over and over until he has a long, narrow strip of newspaper which he flattens with both hands. _Fucking hell, what is he doing now? _His cigarette dangles loosely from his lips as he starts folding and turning the paper strip, quickly flicking the entire piece into the air and back down again with each move – back and forth and back and forth – creating an elaborate paper concertina. When he can’t fold it any more he twists the end and then he reaches for another piece of newspaper, starting the whole ridiculous process over again.

After a few minutes Alfie can't take it anymore and puts the book face-down on his knee, because how is a man supposed to concentrate on the cyrillic alphabet with this going on in the background? He laces his fingers together patiently across his stomach and just watches Tommy making a total fucking meal out of folding fire-lighters. 

“You do know that makes absolutely no difference whatsoever, don’t you?" he says, "folding it up like that?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, just carries on with his bizarre folding ritual, crouched on the floor with his back turned to Alfie.

“I mean it’s fucking newspaper mate, it’s gonna burn whether you fold it into fancy little knick knacks or just throw it on, innit?” 

“Uses less kindling like this,” Tommy snaps; ash falling from the cigarette as he talks. Fucking rude, that is, it’s going all over the rug. Tommy just swipes crossly at the bit that’s landed on his trouser leg and ignores the rest. 

“Have you, by any chance, had a bad day, Tommy?” Alfie asks. "I only mention it because you are exuding such an air of calm that I can't help wondering whether it is an elaborate cover for some well-hidden inner turmoil?" Tommy says nothing, just carries on folding and turning, folding and turning, so Alfie continues, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Of course if I weren't such a _sensitive_ creature I'd probably never have picked up on it, mate, because your presence really is just very _relaxing_. I mean here I was, sat in my favourite seat, reading a very engaging book with only that grandfather clock for company, wondering how I could possibly make my evening just a bit more peaceful when you arrived ... with that aura of absolute _serenity_ ... and suddenly I realised what I had been missing." _He's not bloody biting. "_Forgive me for asking, darling, but is there, by any unfathomable chance, something just the tiniest bit wrong?"

“M’ fine,” Tommy grunts when he's finished his latest fire-lighter and flung it crossly into the grate. He immediately starts on yet another. Alfie just watches, wondering whether he’s going to be graced with any explanation for the foul mood he’s being forced to witness, right here, in his own living room. Probably not, which is fair enough all things considered, it’s not like he actually wants or needs to know the details of who’s fucked up what at Shelby Company Limited today, he has enough of that shit in his own organisation. Tommy starts arranging kindling in the fireplace next, fussing with the pieces, then selecting and deselecting logs from the basket until finally, fucking finally, he seems to be happy enough to set a match to the whole damn lot, throwing his cigarette butt in too. 

“Right. Have you quite finished over there?” Alfie asks.

“Yes,” Tommy says, rubbing his eyes hard. 

“Well, thank _fuck_ for that. Get your miserable arse over here then.” Tommy stands but doesn't move immediately. From what Alfie can tell in profile he looks tense – his jaw is clenched and he has that hard look in his eyes like he’s spent all day yelling at people. He looks like he needs to calm the fuck down frankly, which has Alfie's mind instantly whirring. He pats the seat cushion next to him, “come on then, over 'ere.”

Tommy walks reluctantly towards the seat Alfie is indicating, in the middle of the long, green sofa, and sits down. Actually, it's more like he throws himself down, his back slouching lazily, legs splayed wide. He leans his head on the back of the sofa.

“Didn’t ask you to sit down, now, did I?” Alfie says after a few silent seconds, voice low and meaningful. Tommy rolls his head slowly to the left, towards him, with a quizzical look.

“You just tapped the fucking seat,” he says.

“Yeah. Didn’t ask you to _sit_ on it though, did I?”

Tommy looks up towards the ceiling and exhales slowly. “Alfie, it's been a long enough day. I haven't got the energy for your cryptic bullshit right now.” 

“Wanted you to put your head there,” Alfie clarifies, choosing to ignore the slight, “not your arse.”

“My head,” Tommy repeats, voice incredulous. Or maybe exasperated. It's hard to tell.

“Yeah. Your head, mate. _Forehead_ to be precise.”

“What?” Tommy's looking at him properly now, for the first time this evening really. He looks fucked off, Alfie thinks, fucked off with a side order of confused.

“And why?" Tommy says, frowning, "why would I...? _How_ would I even …?” but then he stops talking and swallows hard … realisation slowly dawning on his face. He looks down to the small gap on the sofa between his thigh and Alfie’s. “You want me to _kneel_?”

_Bingo_,_ he’s got it. _Alfie doesn’t say a word, wants to let him to come to this in his own time.

“I’m not fucking kneeling for you,” Tommy says bluntly, forcing a small huff of air from his nostrils. And the thing is, it sounds certain, it sounds like he's absolutely made up his mind. Except that he’s still looking Alfie in the eye, and there’s something akin to intrigue hidden behind that defiant gaze. Which, as far as Alfie’s concerned, means he hasn’t decided anything at all...means this is all still very much open to debate…if Alfie only plays it right. “You’re fucking serious aren’t you?” Tommy says, squinting a little at him.

Alfie tilts his head slightly, hardens his stare. “Man walks into my house like … _that ... _distracts me from my very good book _..._ disturbs my peace _..._ messes up all my _shit_,” he waves vaguely in the direction of the mantlepiece, “drops _ash_ on my fucking _carpet_. Are you telling me, right, are you honestly _telling_ me that that man doesn’t want my fucking attention?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. It feels like the temperature in the room has dropped a couple of degrees.

“Cause it’s too late now, mate. You’ve fucking got it, haven’t you?” Alfie moves his book onto the side table, as if to illustrate the point. “And seeing as you _wanted_ it so much, I think you'd better just run with it now, don't you? Do as I say?”

Alfie can feel it in his stomach – anticipation pooling – the watching and waiting to see whether Tommy will play ball. It’s like putting a lead on a stray dog really … you have to be very careful looping it round the neck, move slowly, stay quiet, but once you have it on you can afford to pull a little, to draw it closer. And even though that dog is gonna dig its feet in, is going to resist a little, you just keep pulling gently, because you both know you’ve got it hooked.

“You actually want me, to fucking kneel,” Tommy says, smirking ever so slightly.

“Yeah, I do, Tommy,” Alfie answers with a correspondingly straight face.

“And why the _hell_ would I do that?”

“Because you need to calm the fuck down, mate. Forget whatever shit it is has you wound tighter than a new pocket watch. Let me take over.” Tommy doesn’t move, so Alfie just keeps tugging that lead. “And because you want to. Because I know what you need. Because you _know_ I know, Tommy."

He listens to the grandfather clock in the corner, counts in his head as another 15 seconds tick by, 20, 30. Half a minute is a long time when you’re waiting. But then Tommy leans forwards and starts to casually unlace his shoes. He takes them off and places them neatly to one side, before resting his forearms on his thighs and staring at his feet. Alfie does his utmost not to say anything else, because this is good …Tommy is considering it; he hasn’t got up yet, hasn’t left the room, hasn’t told him to fuck off. And the longer they sit there, the more Alfie wants him to comply, wants to take everything out of Tommy's hands, out of his head.

Perhaps it’s the way his fringe is hanging down that clinches it, he isn’t sure, but he decides it’s worth the risk. Alfie reaches over and grabs a handful of Tommy’s hair, tugging it slowly but firmly towards him until Tommy’s body has no choice but to follow, shoulders twisting towards him. His grip on the dark locks is firm, but not so firm that Tommy couldn’t pull away if he really wanted to, couldn’t snap his head out of Alfie’s hand and stand up, leave. But he doesn’t. Instead he slides very hesitantly off the sofa and sinks onto one knee.

Alfie hums deep in his chest, unable to hide his satisfaction at Tommy's reluctant agreement. It provokes a flicker of defiance in Tommy’s eyes, like he’s questioning why the hell he’s obeying, but his other knee swings round to follow the first until he is kneeling in front of the sofa, to Alfie's right.

“That's it. Down you go,” Alfie says coaxingly, “hands on your thighs,” and Tommy does, sinks down until he is sitting on his heels, until his forehead is resting on the seat right next to Alfie’s thigh. Alfie just pats the back of his neck twice and says “there you go,” quietly. He leaves his hand there, resting on the short velvety hairs at the back of Tommy’s head, his thumb stroking lightly back and forth. He can feel the sinews in Tommy’s neck, fraught with tension like steel cables … hear the way his breath stutters as he inhales. He’s evidently deeply uncomfortable, and yet he’s doing this anway; Alfie can feel his cock swelling already at that thought. He is gonna give Tommy _exactly_ what he deserves ... exactly what he _needs_. But first he is gonna finish that bloody chapter. He reaches for his book and resumes reading from the top of the page he was on earlier, without so much as glancing in Tommy’s direction. By the time he's finished he can't help but feel vindicated when he notices how Tommy's breathing has evened out and his shoulders have dropped. Sometimes he just really _needs_ to listen to Alfie.

“Take your gun off, then,” Alfie says softly. Tommy tries to straighten up, but finds pressure swiftly applied to the back of his neck, “no, no, no, your head stays here,” Alfie says. Tommy pauses, but then shuffles, muscles flexing as he works the leather off his shoulder awkwardly, dropping it onto the floor with a clunk. “Trousers,” Alfie says next, deciding that he may as well start another chapter. There’s a longer pause before Tommy does start to loosen his braces and reach down to unbutton his flies. This is undoubtedly more difficult to do without lifting his head but Alfie's hand stays firm, he sees no reason to make this easy. 

_____

Several instructions and a whole chapter later Alfie snaps his book shut with a loud thud and finally turns his full attention back to the now naked man by his feet. He still has his forehead pressed obediently into the sofa and Alfie can't help but slide a hand underneath to pull his face round. Tommy's eyes are deliciously glazed with a compelling mixture of fury and anticipation. It turns Alfie on like nothing else. "Hmmm, calmed down a bit have we?" he asks in a deliberately patronising tone. Tommy's shoulders heave in an agitated sigh, but he doesn't answer.  "What's the matter, cat got your tongue, love?"

"No, I'm fine" Tommy whispers, voice hoarse from lack of use. "Sure you don't want to read another chapt...?" but he can't finish the sentence because Alfie pushes a thumb roughly into his mouth and presses down hard on his tongue. The look of indignation in those blue eyes speaks directly to Alfie's darkest appetites and he grips Tommys' whole lower jaw – thumb pressing down, fingers digging up into the soft tissue where his throat meets his chin. Tommy gags as Alfie drags his head up from the sofa and towards him and bites down hard on Alfie's thumb. And whilst that is probably a fair reaction to the rough handling, it doesn't stop Alfie tutting and shaking his head slowly as he pulls his hand out and leans away. He knows Tommy won't like that, doesn't want to be pushed away, needs the closeness even when he can't admit it. 

And so he's not surprised when Tommy lunges for him, clambers up from the floor and into Alfie's lap and starts to kiss him angrily, urgently. His tongue is licking into Alfie's mouth, teeth nipping at his lips as his hands run through Alfie's beard. And the thing is, it's like a little taste of heaven - Alfie can't help but tip his head back against the sofa and go with it for a moment, run his fingers over Tommy's smooth torso, all lithe muscle and hard nipples and tightly coiled need. Tommy is sighing deeply into Alfie's mouth now, and _fuck,_ it would be so easy to give in to this, to undo his own trousers and fuck him right here, on the sofa, fast and hard and all over in a few minutes. Except that's not how he wants this to go, not how he wants Tommy to _feel._ And so he summons all of his willpower to grip Tommy's wrists hard and pull them away from his face, straightening his arms out so that their mouths are pulled apart too. He twists Tommy's right arm up behind his back in a quick, well-practiced movement and forces him down over his lap, shuffling towards the middle of the sofa as he does so. Because that's where he wants Tommy tonight, face down over his knee, ready to make up for that bad temper.

"Stop fighting Tommy or you're gonna hurt that shoulder," Alfie warns, as Tommy twists and struggles, shouting, "fuck you!" through gritted teeth, because there's no chance of getting out of the armlock. Alfie holds him down none too gently... because he can. And because Tommy needs this. 

"I think we both know what's gonna happen next, eh love?" he hums darkly. "I'm gonna spank all that tension right out of you. All that temper too." He swats Tommy's arse once, hard, making him buck up with a shocked sound, but his cock hardens too, there's no denying the way it digs into Alfie's thighs. Silly boy, just needs to know what's good for him. Alfie rubs one hand soothingly over the skin he's just smacked and makes a quiet shushing noise that has Tommy burying his face in the seat cushion and letting out a loud groan of surrender. "There you go," Alfie hums in satisfaction, "hard as fucking marble aren't you?" It couldn't be more obvious how much Tommy's body aches for this...if only his head would allow it. 

Alfie moves his arm down to wrap over Tommy's waist; satisfied he is no longer attempting escape – his resignation as clear as his lust. Alfie can't help but run his hand over the smooth, white arse, tilted into the air as it currently is. He squeezes each cheek in turn, then runs one finger down the cleft between, watching goose-bumps prickle the soft skin. 

"You've only got yourself to blame, Tommy, can't expect me to turn a blind eye to that sort of mood in my own fucking house."

"Shut up Alfie," comes the muffled response. That is just r_ude_ Alfie thinks, not to mention pretty stupid given his current predicament. He waits for Tommy to still, before taking a deep breath and striking him, hard, with an open hand. The sudden sound rings crisply in the air and Tommy inhales sharply in response. The next smack is harder, coming down on the same spot as the first and leaving a smatter of tiny red flecks where Alfie's rings have struck. Should probably have taken those off he supposes, but Tommy's a big boy, he can handle it. Alfie follows it with another and another, humming deeply at the delectable sight of Tommy's arse bouncing on his lap. Slowly he builds up a rhythm, laying them on fast, striking relentlessly over the same spots and warming up the skin. He alternates cheeks, being sure to cover as much area as possible, hitting those sweet, rounded curves with an endless volley of slaps until the skin turns nicely pink.

He thinks about offering Tommy an out ... mercy in return for an apology perhaps ... but then abandons that thought in favour of pushing him harder. He is building up a pattern now, settling into it, the surprisingly harsh sounds of skin against skin a strangely soothing melody to his own ears. And there's something about the position Tommy has put himself in, albeit reluctantly, the way he is sprawled over Alfie's lap, naked and prone, that feels unusually personal. Unusually humiliating perhaps. It's not like Alfie hasn't hit him before, hasn't whipped his arse till it's welted, but it's never been like this. Tonight the only weapon is his own hand and something about that feels particularly intimate. He is going to embrace it, the heat in his palm meeting the heat of Tommy's arse in a vicious, relentless dance. Tommy groans intermittently, but he's holding back, controlling himself, denying Alfie the satisfaction of voicing his pain. Which is fine. Alfie is patient. He has all night if he chooses to use it, and so he just proceeds in the same fashion for several long minutes, watching Tommy's arse turn gradually from pink to red. He strikes every second, over and over again, maintaining the speed and the rhythm until his hand is smarting so badly that he is forced to take a rest.

Tommy buries his head in the seat cushion at the respite, making every attempt to muffle the noises that are clearly threatening to escape. Alfie can't help but see his silence as a challenge ... his lustful demons desperate to punish Tommy's defiance, to break his restraint. And break him he will, of that he is is absolutely sure. He wants to hit him harder, to cut through that icy control, to have Tommy so focused on the sensations in his body that there is no space for the shame that's keeping him mute. Alfie pauses, steadying his breath, preparing himself for more.

"This what you wanted eh, love? Turning up with your bad temper and petulant manners?" He rubs Tommy's reddened cheeks a few times. "Didn't have to goad me into it - you could have just asked for what you needed. I might have gone a bit easier on you." He’s met with the same stony silence as before, defiant and infuriating, and so he sets in again, not holding back.

He ceases to notice the pain in his own hand as he litters Tommy's arse with dozens and dozens of fast smacks. As the minutes tick by he is conscious that Tommy's breathing is increasingly laboured, that his fists are clenching. He is out of breath himself, but has no intention of slowing down or relenting. Small hisses escape Tommy's lips whenever he gets the angle just right, and it fires Alfie up, makes him want to repeat it, find that spot again and make everything worse. He is persistent and patient and willing to do whatever it takes to build up the pain and weaken Tommy's resolve. Time has become an abstract concept, marked not by the numbers on the clock but the ache in Alfie's arm ... the darkening colour of sore flesh. He smacks so hard that Tommy's whole body jolts forward deliciously with each strike and he has to hold him in place with one arm over his waist, increasing both the speed and the tally until Tommy's buttocks clench hard in anticipation of each painful strike. It seems inconceivable that something as simple and innocent as a human hand can elicit such delightfully pained responses. Marks bloom across Tommy's skin with the continued, relentless attention, blood rushing to the surface with every harsh strike only to be met with yet more blows from the same unforgiving palm. He's starting to get more intense reactions though, starting to breach Tommy's walls, and it only makes the depraved parts of Alfie's brain crave more.

"Your arse really is a picture, love," he growls, "so fucking _red_..." and he can't help but pause to squeeze it roughly. He can hear Tommy panting hard, a single high pitched whine telling him that he is close to that tipping point, that he needs this respite. Alfie needs it too, because it's bloody hard work, but he's nothing if not committed. He leans over and grasps Tommy's hair, pulling his face up from the sofa, because he wants to see, wants to hear the moment he breaks. "How's that temper now, eh Tommy?" he asks innocently. "Think you can be a little more affable next time you turn up at my house?"

"Fuck you," Tommy rasps, masochistically, and Alfie lets out an exaggerated sigh, as though he is really disappointed with that answer. In reality they both know it's all the excuse he needs to finish the job.

"Well Tommy, I hope you're ready. Because the real spanking hasn't even started yet sweetie. It only _really_ starts when you're desperate for it to end." He yanks the hair in his left hand as hard as he can – forcing Tommy to arch his back and balance on his arms – whilst he lets rip with the harshest onslaught of smacks yet – fast, ferocious and entirely unforgiving. He covers the whole of his arse until Tommy starts to gasp and whimper uncontrollably... the breaths being knocked out of him with every strike quickly turning into yelps.

"You getting desperate yet?" Alfie asks, focusing on the sit-spots, where Tommy's arse curves down to his thighs. He's planting endless precise swats to each side, over and over again until the red is turning to purple in two bruised central patches. He raises his arm higher and lets his palm fall harder with each strike, using more force than at any previous point this evening. He watches Tommy's sore flesh shake and jolt in response, buttocks clenching and releasing frantically – entirely out of sync with the rhythm Alfie is applying. He is barely controlling his reactions at all now, shouting aloud and grunting with each strike and it makes Alfie want to devour him. He feels an irrepressible urge to add humiliation to the physical pain, to talk Tommy through this, to remind him of exactly why he's here.

"Oh dear, does it hurt, love?" he tuts, voice laced with mock sympathy as he continues the rapid strikes.

"Yes," Tommy whimpers. He's close to tears, or maybe he's already crying, it's hard to tell from this angle.

"Good," Alfie hums, panting through the exertion, "that's good." 

Tommy stutters and chokes, small gurgling sounds catching in the back of his throat as Alfie aims a particularly harsh flurry of swats to his right buttock. One arm reaches round in a desperate attempt to shield his arse from yet more blows and Alfie is forced to let go of Tommy's hair in order to clamp it out of the way. He would almost feel sorry for him, if it weren't for the way he turns to look at Alfie with absolute fury in his eyes. And the truth is Alfie is tiring, but _fuck_ if that look of defiance doesn't sharpen his resolve. He is going to spank that rebellion out of Tommy's eyes with every remaining ounce of his strength. And so he does, spanking the bruised cheeks ruthlessly before moving down to the tops of Tommy's thighs, seeking out untouched flesh to redden and abuse until it matches the skin above. Because if Tommy is going to look at him like _that_ then he can damn well take the consequences. Sounds spill freely from Tommy's lips for the next few minutes, yelps and shouts and drawn out cries of "ow!" His legs start kicking out like he has absolutely _lost_ it, any semblance of forebearance or control a distant memory. By the time Alfie has worked over the whole area once more Tommy's left leg is quivering uncontrollably. 

Alfie is so focused on that trembling limb, on the purple mottling of his arse and the blackening flecks left by his rings, that it takes him a few moments to register that Tommy is no longer struggling. His body has slackened, his muscles sagging rather than straining beneath Alfie's hand as each strike is now met with thick, wet sobs. It's as though his whole body has collapsed, gone soft, resigned itself to this sorry fate... even his cock, so hard with anticipation earlier this evening, now lies limp between his punished thighs.  
  
Alfie slows down the pace, takes his time between swats. "That's better, love," he says softly, even though he’s pretty sure Tommy isnt capable of listening. "You let it out," he coos, "let me hear you." He'd be amazed if Tommy can focus on anything other than how much his arse hurts right now. Which is good. Which is what he needed. It's not that he's evil, at least not entirely, he knows that Tommy is getting something out of this on a very base level. He delivers a few final, well-placed blows before he slows his hand gradually, eventually bringing it to rest on the burning skin. He can't help but bask in the sound of Tommy sobbing into the seat cushion, openly, shamelessly ... no more walls, no pretence.   
  
"Look at me, love," he says, after a few minutes have passed and Tommy's back is heaving a little less. He turns Tommy's face to the side and strokes the sweat slicked hair from his forehead, pushing it back in black ribbons. It's too awkward in this position, he wants to see Tommy's face, so Alfie manhandles him onto his back until his head is resting heavily in Alfie's lap and he is gazing up through wide, wet eyes. Fucking hell, he looks wrecked. Wrecked but beautiful ... peaceful. He has that innocent, adoring expression on his face that's so rare Alfie wants to capture it somehow, lock it in his mind and store it there to look back on when Tommy has one day fucked off and he's a lonely old man. "Better?" he asks.  
  
"Better," Tommy replies sheepishly.  
  
He wants everything for this man, wants him to be happy, wants him to be safe. It's a futile hope for someone like Tommy, but at least in these moments Alfie can try, or pretend. He reaches a hand down to cup Tommy's balls, letting his hand rest there gently for a moment. Tommy swallows and his pupils flare – Alfie can feel the blood pulsing sluggishly beneath his fingers. "Just look at me, love," he breathes, moving his other hand down to hold Tommy's slowly hardening erection. "That's it, look at me," he repeats, slowly pulling the foreskin down and back, down and back, feeling Tommy swell beneath his movements. He just wants to make him feel good, which might seem odd when he's just made him weep but, fuck it, it makes perfect sense in his own mind. He grasps and pulls at Tommy, moving gently yet firmly, running his fingernails over the delicate skin of his scrotum and not taking his eyes of Tommy's face. Blood rushes to his own cock at the sight in his lap, Tommy, humbled and pliant, gazing at him through damp eyelashes, lips parted. He's thrusting slightly into Alfie's hand, panting delicately and asking silently for more. Alfie spits onto the tip of Tommy's cock and smears the moisture with his thumb. Tommy gasps and closes his eyes briefly, before Alfie reminds him to keep looking, to hold his gaze. "I'm gonna watch you come love and you are gonna look in my eyes and show me how good it feels."  
  
Tommy's tongue licks over his lower lip and he grips a handful of Alfie's shirt, pulling himself up weakly, reaching for Alfie's mouth but Alfie just pushes him back down and continues to stroke him carefully, shushing him, telling him that he's good, that he's beautiful. Tommy frowns up at him, little moans escaping his lips in time with every stroke. Alfie smooths his hair and shushes him again. He looks exhausted. "Look at me," he says again when Tommy's head lolls to the side and his eyes threaten to close; he looks like he could actually fall asleep in Alfie's lap. And so Alfie speeds his movements, adds that twist he knows Tommy loves until he's making small, weak sounds, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

"Show me, Tommy," he whispers as he presses one finger firmly beneath his balls, and Tommy comes, almost instantly, hips and shoulders stuttering feebly as he gazes obediently into Alfie's eyes. And that has got to be one of Alfie's favourite sights in all the world...he'll take that over a sunrise or a sunset any day of the week...that beautiful face utterly ruined but unburdened, at least for a short while. He'd like to think it's a glimpse of the boy Tommy once was ... but of course he'll never know. Alfie slides one arm beneath his shoulders and cradles him gently, pulling him close enough to kiss his eyelids, his cheekbones, his hair. Tommy swats him away, of course, which is a shame, really, but Alfie doesn't care right now. Doesn't even care that his own hard-on has retreated, sadly neglected. He reaches for the half-empty glass of water on the table and Tommy drinks it without argument, clearly parched, before curling into his chest once more.

They're going to have to move Alfie realises after several peaceful minutes. Tommy's getting cold and he's going to have to eat, (whether he wants to or not) and so reluctantly, Alfie picks up the discarded shirt and uses it to wipe off Tommy's stomach. He finds a blanket to wrap around the man's shoulders whilst he goes to the kitchen, throwing two logs onto the fire before he leaves the room. He's as quick as can be, knowing he can't leave Tommy to come down on his own, that didn't work out too well last time. He plates up food and pours two glasses – one of whiskey, one of water – and is about to look for a tray when there are bare footsteps behind, slapping quietly on the tiles. Two arms wrap around his waist and a warm head lays on his back. 

"M'sorry," Tommy says quietly into his waistcoat. Alfie freezes for a moment, surprised and touched in equal measure. He turns round carefully to cup Tommy's face in both hands. "You gonna tell me what that was all about then?"

"Spoke to Polly today," Tommy says, looking at the floor. Aah...so that explains it...the aunt who isn't speaking to him. He can't help but feel his hackles rise.

"And?" Alfie says, doing his upmost to keep his face neutral, his voice calm.

"And I think that's it. Don't think she's ever gonna forgive me." Tommy says, fidgeting with the edge of the crocheted blanket that's draped endearingly round his shoulders. It’s one of those multi-coloured things, made out of offcuts of wool ... Alfie can't remember for the life of him where it came from but it makes Tommy look very small. "Which is fine. Really," Tommy goes on. "I mean I can't change anything." He clears his throat, loudly. "It's just that she's always been there, Alfie. She's always been, well, _home_. S'gonna be strange."

"And what does Ada say, hmmm?"

"Says to leave it with her, to give her more time," Tommy huffs. "But she didn't hear how Pol spoke to me."

"Well, she's a smart cookie, your Ada, so why don't you just try and trust her?" Alfie says, wrapping his arms around Tommy's neck in a proper bear hug this time, because he can't make up for Tommy's family but he can try to be, well, _something_. "You're shivering love, let's go to bed."

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, and they trail up the stairs carrying plates and glasses between them.

An hour later, Tommy is fast asleep on Alfie's chest. They've eaten, showered and fucked gently (in the shower as it happens – which was a novelty certainly – although on balance Alfie would rather stick to beds) but now he can't sleep. There's one tiny detail from this evening that he just cannot stop replaying in his head; the way Tommy said that Polly was _home_. For some fucked up reason that one small phrase has made him irrationally jealous. Melancholy even. Because the realisation is dawning that _he_ wants to be Tommy's home. He wants this to be the place where Tommy can be himself, can be safe. He'll take all the man's faults: his ambition and irritability and ill-temper, his inability to relax or eat or light a fucking _fire_ like a normal human being. He'll forgo ever reading a book in peace again... if Tommy will just continue to come home. To him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, you know by now that I live for your feedback, so please, hit me with it! (Sorry, I can't resist a pun).


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